Reborn
by Aithilin
Summary: Discontent in Heaven, Castiel Falls and becomes reborn as a mortal. AU story. Eventual Dean/Castiel. Slow build. Spoilers for Season 5. Rating is subject to change.
1. Prologue

**Title: **Reborn

**Author: **Aithilin

**Rating: **G — Subject to change later

**Genre:** General (subject to change), AU

**Warnings:** Spoilers for back-story as revealed in Season 5 (_"Back to the Future II"_/ _"The Song Remains the Same"_).

**Pairing:** Eventual Dean/Castiel

**Disclaimer:** All recognizable characters were created by, and belong to, Kripke and company. Likenesses belong to respective actors.

**Summary: **Discontent in Heaven, Castiel Falls and becomes reborn as a mortal.

**Author's Notes:** The timeline is drawing heavily from what was set out in _John Winchester's Journal_ by Alex Irvine.

His vessel was useful. The consciousness of a devout man born in the late 1500s had spent the first few centuries in utter amazement at the changing world around his physical body. Eventually, somewhere between 1860 and 1872, that consciousness fell silent, asleep. Gabriel couldn't really say when it happened, just that somewhere in those twelve years, he suddenly felt very alone in his own head.

He didn't regret taking this vessel-- using this holy man for his own means (the man had a wicked sense of humour for the time, and saw the justification in the punishments doled out by an archangel), and finding a way to simply exist independent of Heaven. Gabriel was a little disappointed that his vessel was so short, though. Especially in comparison to men nowadays.

But there were no real regrets.

At least, not until he saw the falling stars in 1982, and knew instantly that one of his brothers had followed an approximation of his example. It's not like anyone _but_ an archangel could safely tell Heaven to fuck off and go investigate the pagan indulgences of humanity.

Whomever was Falling now was in for a lifetime of being hunted if he was discovered.

Releasing his guard on his Grace enough to eavesdrop, he learned the name of his soon-to-be-mortal brethren. Castiel.

The name didn't ring a bell. Perhaps that far too serious seraph who followed the heels of Uriel and Aniel. But he was certain that one's name was Cassiel, possibly Caliel, or something like that.

Grace and form blinking out of sight from the sky, Gabriel closed himself off once more and lay back against the hood of the cherry red Firebird. It wasn't his, but he liked it for the moment. The driver had made a habit of aiming for the small things that crossed the road-- being beaten to death with antlers by angry raccoons seemed fitting at the time. Though it did make a mess of the leather.

An archangel couldn't Fall. Not like that. Not totally separated from home.

Out of habit and carefully preserved faith, Gabriel uttered a small prayer-- hoping that his Father was really somewhere out there to hear it-- that the newly forming mortal in some woman's womb was going to be welcomed into a caring family. The past life memories alone would be a bitch to deal with.

Any angel with the balls to outright rebel against the big brothers and their madness deserved some kind of acknowledgement.

Settling against the car to watch the night sky again, occasionally eavesdropping in on the gossip of Heaven, Gabriel simply enjoyed his existence. He might have to track down this Fallen little brother of his in a few years and make sure the humans are treating him well.


	2. Back Story

**Author's Note:** Sorry, this is mostly back-story and setting.

He had never actually expected to have children. It was in the back of his mind as a permanent "one day" hypothetical that never seemed within reach. Before the wedding, they had talked about it; during the wedding, they had received the usual "good luck" and "you'll have a great family" comments from everyone who knew their ambition to "one day" start a proper family; after the wedding, the "one days" became a permanent idea in the back of his mind.

One day, medicine will find a way to make a pregnancy stick.

One day, Beth will be able to stop blaming herself for that first miscarriage in 1979.

After that, Beth had taken up a sort of new faith. The family church seemed to be a larger fixture in her life for it, and he liked how at ease she seemed on Sunday afternoons. He might not have liked how it made him feel like he wasn't doing everything he could to help his wife, but he wasn't a jealous man by nature. Really. They never fought about it, at least.

It was on a Sunday afternoon, incidentally, that Beth found out the news that she was pregnant. After a week of tests, confirmations, and strange coincidences, Beth's delight became infectious.

Robert Singer had never expected to be able to pull the old crib from '79 out.

The spare room was dressed up properly, almost overnight. The wallpaper striped and a light blue paint rolled on, the crib was shined, blankets and supplies started pouring in and filling the shelves. When it was finished, and the sloping ceiling decorated with little stars (Bobby insisted), Beth called it "Heaven" and Bobby took it to mean that he did a good job. The only thing Beth ever insisted upon was the picture of a guardian angel above the window. He didn't have the heart to refuse her.

By August of 1983, everything was set up and ready to welcome who Beth had already started calling her "little angel."

Even after the birth, and little James Singer was comfortable in his light blue nursery, Beth called him her "little angel" as a sort of pet name. Another thing he couldn't refuse her, even if it did sound a bit girly to him. But given the circumstances, he could stomach it. And, he did love watching her coddle that cooing little boy.

Then the Tragedy struck. Literally.

For the first few months, Bobby felt uprooted. He left Jimmy with friends or family while he dealt with both child services and a growing curiosity about just what sort of monstrosities were out there. He had to know now, to protect his son. In the matter of months, he found out about hunters, demons, ghosts, monsters, and how to defend against them all (a short exorcism would have saved his wife?). He spent hours in libraries-- public and private-- and archives, in roadhouses run by hunters, making connections and burying his rage at how unfair this all was. He learned about silver and salt, iron and where to hide it. He went out with new friends, fell into the network, and found something a thousand times more supportive than any therapy group his sister had been trying to point him towards. This group let him act out his "therapy" on the monsters that would hurt other families.

He realized just how far he'd gone when he got a call from his sister in July of '84. There was news, and he smiled as a babbling little boy was put on the phone to happily say "Da" to his father and babble a greeting consisting primarily of "Da, " "ha," and nonsense noise. It was quickly replaced with the happy voice of his sister-- telling him about how the doctor at the latest check up said that James had developed his speech right on time, and was even stringing together basic ideas. He was also a demanding little boy who spent hours cuddling his "Ca" toy (the stuffed orange cat Beth used to put in his crib every naptime and night).

Bobby was on his way home the next day, calling in a favour of Bill Harvelle to take his place on a hunt.

He kept hunting to the side, collecting books and giving hunters the information they needed to get back to their own families safely. By 1986, he had a little business fixing cars set up, selling scrap, remodelling, even redesigning for hunters if the material was there. Three-year-old Jimmy had a daycare group to socialize him (though there were concerns that he was too quiet, too withdrawn. It almost set Child Services on him again, if the boy hadn't been so happy and vocal at home), and Bobby had found a balance between his business, his son, and hunting.

Anyone attached to the hunting community had heard of John Winchester. Bobby met him once or twice on the road in '84-- before he resettled back home-- but he never had his offer of an open door taken up. He finally called John in a rage when he heard what had happened to Bill Harvelle in April of '86. Winchester showed up himself not too long after.

Bobby worried about him. They talked over fixing up cars—and beer— and Bobby realized just how alike they were. Only John was more anxious-- travelling with two boys (one who was already getting used to calling himself the "New Kid"), leaving them safe somewhere to make this visit… Terrified of the threats of demons. He could understand John. Even if the offer to watch the boys was never going to be followed up on-- Bobby understood that need to just kill everything that could hurt an innocent. But he didn't miss the look of longing when he told John that he had to go pick up Jimmy from his play group.


	3. Therapy

He had never been so nervous in his life. Sure, there were times when he thought he was-- mostly when he had a murderous creature in his iron sight, or when he was restraining a possession victim during an exorcism-- but those hadn't involved his son. His troubled son. Troubled enough to make the school notice. Enough to cause someone in a suit and position of power to decide that it wasn't healthy.

They said he was "acting out." Somehow having a good imagination equated to acting out in the school system. The boy barely made a peep when in public.

Now there was a short, fairly friendly man in business casual kicking him out of his own home so his boy can be assessed for therapy. Bobby wasn't sure if he should be terrified, or furious. Either option just led to the same place in reality: up to the elbows in grease and oil and digging through a scrap engine for some salvage. It was far more suitable than going in there and wringing the smarmy grin off the therapist's face.

At least it was something he could control. Not like his boy's dreams, or the bullies that made him jump through two schools in two years. By the time they settled on a third (some private Catholic school governed by an all-too concerned headmistress and resident priest), the town and county bullies had compared notes. His boy now had endless bad dreams and the nickname of "Casper" to torment him. All it had taken was one smart-mouthed six-year-old to notice how shy Jimmy was, and the nickname stuck for two years so far.

It was the noise of the engine that caused him to look up-- it wasn't a modern noise. It was the distinctive purr of a classic car that existed under the careful hands of a man who knew what he was doing. Winchester was the last person he wanted to see during all this.

Of course, it also happened to be one of the few times Winchester saw fit to bring his two boys with him. So there was no way to tell him to just buzz off and come back later.

Bobby saw the look of concern that passed John's face when he saw the modest car parked nearby (if Singer Salvage could boast anything other than quality service, it was the ample parking for scrap heaps and visitors alike-- even if it did cost him the front and side yards), followed by the instant wariness on the faces of two boys that followed John like pups attached to him by leads.

"Branching off from scrap, Bobby?"

It was the gruff invitation to either reassure John that everything was okay, or that they should be running the other way.

"Just a visitor, John." Bobby nodded his greeting, hoping his anxiety didn't show too much through the façade of seasoned mechanic. "Nice to see you, boys."

John's posture relaxed a bit-- they could stay without worrying. "What's going on."

A glance at the twelve-year-old Dean as the boy was already laser-focused on the open engine Bobby had been working on. It never escaped him how Dean kept his little brother from getting too close to the machine-- as harmless as it now was-- while still pointing out what was what. It was a good enough distraction for the boys that Bobby decided he could vent his frustrations to John. So long as the damned therapist didn't catch on to it.

"Child therapist. Recommended by Jimmy's school."

"What? Why? Your boy's never been a problem." John could associate to the anxiety. It was among his worse fears that Dean's own acting out would attract too much attention they couldn't handle.

Bobby shrugged, busying his hands with cleaning up his tools and putting them where small hands couldn't easily get to them. It was the waiting that was the hard part. "They say a good imagination is 'acting out' now. He only ever writes things down." He can't help the small shake of his head in disbelief that a child's stories would be bad. "Hardly says a word to anyone in the school."

"Bobby, what's been going on?" A distressed father could easily recognize another distressed father. John's been sensitive to these odd bouts of anxiety for eight years. "Introverted kids don't get a therapist knocking on the door."

"Bad dreams, mostly." Bobby had tried looking into metaphysical ways to solve the problem, but nothing was dosed down for a child. He wouldn't trust magic in this way, either. But the writing had seemed to help-- Jimmy was a smart boy. Smart kids don't need to be told they're crazy. Bobby harrumphed as the last wrench clattered into the toolbox and the lock clicked into place. "He started writing them down and some teacher saw them. Kid was just writing stories, no harm to anyone."

"Must've been some stories." John had a shared fear on that matter, too. He'd confided in Bobby two years ago-- when the boys first met-- that Sam seemed smarter than he ought to; picked up on things and had strange dreams that had him screaming or waking with a headache. So, John knew the trouble these sorts of things drew, especially in schools when the boy was a perpetual "new kid."

"Angels and demons." No hunter believed in angels now, and almost none trusted that demons were out and about in the world. Creatures can lie and say they're whatever they want. Bobby, of course, had a different idea on the matter, but it wasn't something he ever told his boy about. "Don't know how he got the ideas in his head. He makes them out to be fighting, and the teachers said it wasn't good."

"I guess angels are supposed to fight demons. Isn't that the usual story?"

"He makes it so the angels are fighting each other."

There's a pause as John watches Dean pull a curious Sam away from the body of the scrap heap of a car. He speaks after a moment of considering his own children. "Dark stuff for a kid."

"He hasn't been near my books. I don't let him." Bobby didn't know where the stories came from, or even where Jimmy found his favourite angel character-- some low-level (according to some catalogues) creature named "Castiel." Sure, a Catholic school had some mention of these things, but it had taken Bobby weeks just to find a mention of the name anywhere. "He just makes it up."

John frowned, knowing full well that Sam had been sneaking looks at his books for roughly a year now. So it wasn't completely impossible for him to see Jimmy finding something to read in Bobby's own considerably larger collection. But before he could put his thoughts to words, the front door opened and there stood a short man who instantly rubbed John the wrong way. Sight alone was enough to make the hunter decide that he didn't like him.

Jimmy was on his heels, though, and didn't hesitate to hop off the porch to greet Sam and Dean. To John's eyes, the kid was just the same as ever: friendly, if quiet, and eager to ask Sam about his adventures.

The short man had a lopsided smile as he stood before both men, looking more than satisfied with himself. A brief introduction as "" to John, and the man gave Bobby his assessment.

"Kid's fine."

There was an incredulous pause from both men at that-- not because they didn't believe it, but because it seemed to be a completely unanimous decision. Bobby frowned. "That's it?"

"Yup." Gabe pulled what looked like a candy bar from his pocket (John reasoned that it was understandable-- a therapist could bribe a kid into talking to him, after all). "Kid's fine. Shouldn't be having nightmares, and even likes the nickname we sorted out for him."

"Nickname? You mean that 'Casper' one?"

"Kinda." Gabe's posture shifted, from the informal, playful friend of troubled children everywhere, to the self-assured man who could also talk to adults. "Names have power, and kids-- little brats that they are-- like to abuse it. Jimmy gets called one thing, so we associated it to something he likes. Name of an angel, for instance."

It was a test, Bobby could see it. The challenge in the man's eyes and way he held himself. He wanted to know if Bobby had been a good father and actually listened to his son. Bobby just had no idea what to make of it. "You turned "Casper" into "Castiel," right?"

"Got it in one. Should help the little guy get some confidence." Gabe paused, crumpling up the candy wrapper. "Just don't worry about the bully thing-- that'll sort itself out soon."

Bobby nodded and muttered a quick 'thanks' as the therapist promptly spun on his heel and sauntered back to the modest car waiting for him. Hunter instincts were telling him that he missed something important, but paternal relief that his boy wasn't in any sort of danger of being taken away was enough to take over. For now, he'd let it be. The boys were fine playing together, and he could see what the hell John Winchester drove all the way to South Dakota for.

"Sorry about that, John. What did you need?"

"I need some information, Bobby. I think there's some things I need to know about demons."

That brought the relief back full circle to anxiety. But Bobby nodded, knowing that it was better to help John out than it was to stand in his way. "Best go inside, and let the boys play."

John followed, mind falling back to purpose and mission as he switched focus from family to business. It was an easy jump for him, though Bobby had often told him it wasn't healthy. He still paused to tell Dean;

"You keep an eye on them, Dean. Don't go wandering too far."

Father and drill sergeant, John Winchester knew that the order would be followed to the letter.

--------

He could understand looking out for Sammy--it was important, it kept his family together, and it was the sort of responsibility that his dad needed from him. But when it came to looking out for both Sammy and Jimmy… That just felt too much like babysitting. And he wasn't getting paid to babysit.

Sure, he'd keep an eye on them and make sure the kids didn't go get themselves killed under some scrap metal, but he didn't have to play with them. Besides, eight-year-olds were weird.

So he took a moment to rummage through the back of the impala while Jimmy collected the tiny green army men and things he had around. Triumphant with a stack of crumpled, colourful paper, Dean stretches out on the porch to read.

"Dean!" Sammy's voice had that distinct 'I'm telling' whine to it-- the tone that made Dean roll his eyes and wonder how they could possibly be related. "You're not supposed to read those."

"Just play with Jimmy, Sam."

"But Dad said--"

"Dad doesn't care if I _read The Weekly World News_ or not."

"He said you're not supposed to. It's full of crap."

"He reads it." Dean paused, adding as an afterthought. "And if you tell him I'm reading it, I'm telling him you're swearing."

"I'm not."

"Go play, Sammy."

"But-"

Dean had to look up when Sam's whine was cut off. Of all the possible scenarios that could make his little brother shut up when he dug his heels in over something, Dean hadn't expected this one. Still sitting in the dust and looking for all intents and purposes like he was ignoring the brothers, Jimmy had started to draw. It was enough to get Sam's attention, and get him to offer his help. From his angle, and clouded by his disinterest, Dean just thought it looked like the sort of rudimentary shapes kids doodled in kindergarten.

He would have paid more attention to what Jimmy meant when he said that "Mr. Gabe" taught him it to stay safe, but there was a great story about the capture of a vampire cat on page three.


	4. The Church

**Author's Note:** Wow, it's been a while. Dedicated to my lovely Katy, even if she hasn't be available to be my sounding board lately.

* * *

There was nothing calmer than the dead of night in a rural church. Peace and safety exuded from the stone and wood that held the small sanctuary together and slipped into the vicarage like the essence of the Holy Spirit itself was keeping things together. It seemed like the sort of place that really brought the local community together while still offering the same sort of sanctity and blessing to whatever hunters travelled through the area.

Gabriel thought it was all a load of shit. But he was there anyway.

He had a job to do and a promise to keep, so he stood in the centre of the church proper— wings stretched out behind him as far as he could make them go. Something like feathers grazed the edges of the pews, and a brief thought of the good luck that'd visit whoever sat there in the coming days amused him. His grace was intricately tied to the wings, splaying out across and through the building like a cloak of the holiest thing to touch that church throughout its existence. It spread through the ornate carvings on the wooden rafters and beams, and pressed against the stained glass saints who were _supposed_ to be watching over these things.

It was a neat trick he had picked up: revealing his grace to almost his former glory without letting his brethren pinpoint his exact location. Really, it was something he had needed to learn when he pulled a fast one on Baldur and had to get out of sight really fast. If anyone up in Heaven was paying attention to the goings on of earth, they might catch a glimpse of him doing his thing. But it was a miracle in itself if the Host gave the slightest damn about what was going on in the humans' paradise. His brethren's intense disinterest in the mortal world had only made it easier to hide when he wanted to. No matter how close another angel was— and no matter how determined they were to find a Fallen brother— the grace of an archangel obliterated any hits on the angel radar. It was something of an ego boost, to be sure.

So he stood, in the dead of night, in the middle of a church in some town called Blue Earth, revealing enough of his true form to listen in on the static chatter of the family he pretended not to care about anymore.

He was there for a reason. Castiel had been sent to the church- or rather, the Pastor running the church- for a "summer vacation". Gabriel never understood the whole "school" thing, but he figured that knowledge shouldn't be limited to the rich and religious like it used to be, so he stayed out of the way after checking in on the kid every few years. And, this "vacation" thing was something he could approve of; even if it did include the younger Winchester kid. But he had promised that the kid would be safe, and so he created a shield around the kid, tucking him out of holy sight for the time being. He figured that a good deed here and there was a good break from his pagan duties.

"You're an angel, aren't you?"

_Shit_.

Everything- grace, wings- folded neatly back into his vessel and he offered a lazy smirk to the sleepy kid in the doorway. "Jeeze, kiddo; don't you ever sleep?"

"Are you?"

"Kid," Gabriel threw his arms wide with an expectant look, daring the kid- Cas- to accuse him of anything. "Do I _look_ like an angel?"

There was a moment of hesitation- and a flicker of recognition that he really hoped had nothing to do with buried memories- before tired blue eyes narrowed. "I saw wings. Four wings."

That earned a frown as Gabriel let his arms drop and he looked over the boy carefully. The kid was tired, anyone could tell that, but his eyes were focused, and Gabriel knew that this wasn't something he could just pass off as a sleep-deprived delusion. "Kid…" At the very least, he could figure out how to distract the kid— he'd known the boy, literally, since his conception. "What are you doing here?"

"I couldn't sleep."

"I meant _here_, kiddo. Out here in the middle of nowhere."

"Are you going to tell me about the wings if I tell you?"

"Yes." Gabriel could be honest about that. If he could hide from the entire Host of Heaven, he could figure out how to deal with one curious child.

There was a moment of hesitation from Castiel— a brief moment that Gabriel took advantage of to get as comfortable as anyone could be on a pew in the middle of the night. He was joined by the kid and had to wonder if no one had ever actually told Cas about not trusting strangers. "Spill it, kiddo."

"My dad's on a hunt."

"What's he hunting?"

"Some monster that's eating people in Wisconsin. He doesn't know what it is yet, but Mr. Winchester is with him." Gabriel wondered if anyone had ever actually sat the kid down to explain that hunting wasn't something you talked about with strangers. But he supposed that he wasn't really a stranger. "So Sam and I get to stay with Pastor Jim and help him."

"You like hanging out in a church, kiddo?'

There was a moment where Gabriel could see the angel in human skin. Blue eyes had focused on the stained glass image above the altar and hidden in the clerestories, and Gabriel wondered just why the angel fell when there was still so much faith there. He was calm and disciplined— having completely skipped the traumatizing fears that the little red-headed angel a few states away had Fallen into. Never one for silence, Gabriel was about to crack a joke, verbally prod the kid, or physically prod him into action again— anything to make him stop being so damned angelic.

"I like it. I like being with Sammy, and helping Pastor Jim." There's a small smile and Castiel refocuses on the situation at hand. "And I get to meet angels."

"You met me well before this, kiddo."

"I guess. I still remember what you taught me. It's Enochian, isn't it? Pastor Jim has a book about it."

Every angel in creation knew that there were books detailing small things— and big things— like that floating around. But Gabriel hadn't actually considered the possibility that there might be one so close. He'd have to check it out, and maybe do some editing. The idea sprung to mind that he should teach the kid some Enochian insults or swear words. It'd be fun.

"So what did you want me to tell you, kid?"

"Who are you?"

"Just who I said I am before." Gabriel smirked, already knowing what he had to do. A little knowledge could be a dangerous thing. Hunters didn't need to know about everything out there, and he was happy to play the pagan trickster for a while longer. "Call me Gabriel."

"The archangel? The Messenger?"

"That's the one."

"Then why are you here?"

Oh, this kid could be fun. Curiosity was always a trait that Gabriel admired. All the same, he had promised himself to look out for the little Fallen angels hanging around under his watch. He smirked, snapped his fingers, and watched the kid crumple— sliding from the pew and onto the floor in a dead sleep. He worked fast to repress the memories of Heaven bubbling to the surface of the kid's mind, and buried them as deep as he could. He left the Enochian charms and sigils alone, but hid the wings, the talk, everything from before the soul was formed when Grace was pulled away. Another snap and the kid was in a borrowed bed in the vicarage.

"Good question, kiddo."

Gabriel relaxed back in the pew again, contemplating the saints and stained glass once more. He liked the little church. Even if all the calm and peace was a load of crap.


	5. The Pond

**Author's Notes: **This ended up much longer than I thought it would.

* * *

He found the Grace in a pond in the middle of nowhere. Where the kid was born in South Dakota, his Grace ended up in Minnesota. Just outside of Ihlen— where seeing what the media called a meteor come so close was probably the most excitement the folk there had the year of the kid's Fall. But, Gabriel was just assuming that.

He really didn't care.

The pond appeared ancient. It was overgrown and private, with large frogs scattering the second his boots crunched through the field around it. It was the sort of place that the entirety of a small American town would refer to as "the swimming hole" or "the pond" and no one would need clarification. In the 40s, it's where children went to play their own version of Dieppe and "Beaches of Normandy" safely. In the 50s, children would gather together in fishing groups of three and four best friends to try to land the legendary catfish lurking below the lilies. Later, in the 60s and 70s, those kids would skin dip and fuck in the long grasses around the place. In the 80s, they'd take their own children fishing for that catfish of small-town mythology. It was a place of power and small town rituals— the sort of place that Gabriel himself might hang around when in the guise of a pagan god. It was a place more popular than any of the three churches in the town of 179 souls (and Gabriel would have mused that small towns had their own brand of paganism and nature worship, had he not been concerned with finding something). There was just one problem to all of that.

Only the pond just appeared out of a puddle seventeen years ago, the day after half the town swore they saw a falling star.

He found the Grace itself coiled around the stem-anchor of a water lily, quite happy beneath the water and feeding the flowers and dragonflies. Gabriel had to (carefully) move a curious tadpole to get at it.

There were few containers which could hold the Grace of an angel. Most would shatter under the pressure, or be absorbed or changed in whatever way the little spark of holiness saw fit. Most suitable containers were not novelty Pez dispensers, but it was all he had on him at the time. And, after the realization that the Grace that had fallen in Kentucky had been picked up already, he wasn't about to wander off to find something more dignified for Castiel's Grace.

He didn't see what was wrong with the container, anyway. Everyone liked Yoda.

And, an archangel could do whatever he damn well pleased.

—

Something had gone wrong. There had been five hunters when they left, and only John, Dean, and Bobby had stumbled back into Singer Salvage a week after leaving. There was dirt and grime, burns and blood— the telltale marks that made it clear that the group didn't just split up after a successful job finished. The blood, broken bones, and broken weapons told Sam and Cas all they needed to know.

The hunt failed. They got it wrong in the research.

The truck they had taken to the hunt looked ready to be returned to the scrap heap Bobby had pulled it out of, and Sam had rushed away from the sight of it to grab the stash of bandages and salves they'd need. It left Cas to help the hunters get inside, though he was waved off by both his father and John. Dean seemed all too happy for the extra support up the porch steps.

"Fuckin' pixies." Dean muttered as he landed roughly on a chair at the table. His hand left a smear of blood along the whitewashed wood and that spurred Cas to look it over first. It seemed like a good starting point.

"Piskies," Cas corrected, sealing the edge of the bandage to keep it in place around Dean's hand. "They were Cornish."

Across the table, Sam— face pinched with repressed guilt, and eyes focused on the task at hand— helped Bobby with a burn on his arm. John had waved off all help and just grabbed what he needed from the pile on the table. It was a matter of pride. Something had gone wrong, and it could very well be the fault of one person at the table right now.

"Nasty little bastards." Dean shrugged and started unscrewing the cap from a plastic tub of salve with his good hand, fighting to hold the thing still. "There was a whole swarm of them."

"And don't you go thinking you messed up, boys. Nothing wrong with your work, there was just too many of them." Bobby harrumphed, picking out what he needed carefully and getting Sam's help to apply it to where he can't easily get to. With a gesture, he indicates the textbooks and papers tossed aside to make room on the table. "You had bigger things to worry about here."

Sam made a choked noise like a derisive snort aborted midway through, and Cas just shook his head. It was disturbing how used to patching up hunters he was. At least, it would be if he let himself consider it for longer than ten minutes. "We could have helped you."

"Nah, I'd just get stuck babysitting you two." Dean offers his rogue's grin to Cas and tosses a roll of fresh bandages to Sam. "You geeks had those SAT things to study for. If you came, then you would have failed the test and I'd have to listen to you both whine for months."

"The SATs don't work like that, Dean."

"Don't try, Cas." Sam moved on from Bobby to double-check John's injuries, getting swatted off and a scowl for his trouble. He could tell when his father was nursing hurt pride. "Dean dropped out because he was terrified of the tests."

"Dude, don't lie to your geek friends like that. We had a hunt."

"Then go get your GED."

"Later." Dean, deciding that the issue was dropped, and that he was bandaged enough, pushed away from the table and went to raid the fridge. He moved slowly, frustrated by the fresh injuries, but he wanted a drink if he was going to put up with Sammy. "Bitch."

"Jerk." Sam hadn't even bothered to look up from the kettle he was filling.

"It's a good idea, Dean." John grumbled from the table. His movement was minimal, but he helped Cas clean up the bandages and accepted the damp cloth from Bobby to clean off the table surface while the other hunter helped his son put things away. "You can see what you need to schedule your GED when Sam takes his test. You need to drive the boys to school, anyway."

"Why do I have to drive them anywhere? Sam can drive."

"Me and Bobby are finishing off that colony first chance we get." John tossed the cloth in the sink, and accepted the mug of insta-coffee from Sam, as he started towards the doorway. There's a smile as he sees the twin scowls on both faces. "You're babysitting, Dean. Keep your brother out of trouble."

An indignant squawk from Dean and a whine from Sam followed him into the living room. The Singer homestead was familiar to him now, even if it did feel like he was intruding on his friend's life every time he showed up. John knew that he had just caught the tail end of something when he saw Bobby patting Cas' shoulder before sending the kid back to the kitchen.

Cas never ceased to amaze John. The kid just took things in stride— every injury, hunt, and day home— and, John had to wonder how this kid dealt with hunting while his own Sam seemed so desperate to get away from it all. It probably helped that he had a fixed home. He stops the kid on his way past to offer a smile. "Don't let them kill each other, Cas."

The order is met with a small smile and nod before the seventeen-year-old ducked in to either referee or study the Winchesters bickering in the kitchen.

"He's a good kid, Bobby." It wasn't the first time John had said that. "Quiet, though."

Bobby nodded, stacking things into the first aid container Sam had torn open when he saw the hunters getting back. "Smart kid, too. He's looking to get into Stanford or Cornell already."

John recognized the names as schools Sam had been bugging him about lately. "You okay with him taking off like that?"

"Got to be, John. My kid's growing up." He doesn't remind John that Sam's growing up, too. "It's gotta be dealt with."

"Yeah, good times." It's time for a change in subject before something can be turned around on him, and John knew it. "I want him to come out to that colony with us. He memorized the damn book, he just needs to see the things to know what to use to kill them."

"No."

The ice tone almost made John shudder. "Kid's smart. He doesn't need to get close."

"Winchester, we've been through this. Cas doesn't hunt."

"We can use him." The second the words leave his mouth, John knows they were a mistake. Bobby's eyes harden and the first aid container is slammed shut. For a moment there, John would have sworn that his friend was on a hunt.

"You don't 'use' my boy, John. Bad enough I let him help with the research." Bobby looked about ready to slug John. At least, he would have if there wasn't a coffee table stacked with books on Cornish folklore between them. "He stays home, goes to school, and we figure out this hunt on our own."

The topic was dropped. John knew that Cas would help this hunt if he could just see the damn creatures. Yet, instead of pressing the matter, John fell onto the couch and grabbed the nearest book. He didn't miss the glare from Bobby as the man left to fix up the truck.

—

The books are opened again— spread across the table, save for a small area Dean has claimed for himself. Every so often, he'd take a sheet of paper or turns a book around to see just what had been deemed so important; but for the most part, Dean wasn't that interested in what was being studied. The smell of cooking food wasn't any help to his patience, either.

"Seriously, you kids need to get a life."

Sam made a noncommittal grunt and grabbed the notes from Cas' pile of information to cross-reference his own. He was used to ignoring his brother, and Cas was just skimming reviewed material while he worked out the pasta on the stove. It was quiet, and that was more than Dean could take when he had nothing to do but wait for food.

"Dude, what the hell? You never get into hunts like this."

"This is my future, Dean."

"It's school."

"I like school."

"And you're a freak."

Dean raised his shoulders in a shrug and waved off the glare from his kid brother. The sound of the fridge opening caught his attention, though, and Dean had to grin when Cas threw him the tail end of a block of cheese.

"I guess I must be a freak too?" Satisfied that food will keep Dean from complaining about the studying, Cas turns back to skimming his notes and stirring sauce before it can bubble over.

Dean grinned. "Damn straight. You even go to that creepy religious school and like it."

"It has an interesting course selection."

"Dude, stop proving my point for me." Pushing the chair back, Dean stretched out and attempted to flip through one of the books on the table. "Anyway, what do you do for fun around here, Cas?"

"This." A dripping spoon indicated the table and the books, and Sam being very good at ignoring his brother. "But you can ask dad if there are any cars you can work on."

Sam nodded, switching one book for another. "Just do something so we can pretend you're not here."

"Now you're stuck with me, bitch. I can make your life a living hell until we leave." Dean threw the bottle cap from his beer at his brother, just trying to get Sammy to take the bait. "You'll help me, right, Cas?"

"My only order is to keep you two from killing each other."

—

It was late when John cornered Cas. Bobby had taken Dean into the yard to show him what he could "work on" (exact phrasing being "make yourself useful, boy") if he was bored, and Sam had ran into town to pick up groceries with money his father gave him. The house was quiet, Cas was putting the study guides and notes away so he and Sam could continue later, and John wanted to take advantage of the moment.

"I need you for something, kid." John waited until Bobby was well away from the house before he approached the teen. Holding up a book that catalogued several fey creatures from British territories, John offered the picture of a small creature with white hair and wrinkled skin. "I need to know if there's an easy way to kill this thing."

"It's a korrigan, Mr. Winchester." Cas frowned, putting aside school books for something he found more interesting. "Iron usually does it. Are you hunting one?"

"This thing was directing the swarm of piskies we went after."

Another small frown and Cas closed the book carefully. "Then there's a well near the site. You can put iron in the water to poison the korrigan, and use bells to scare the piskies away."

"That's it?"

"Well, without seeing what's going on—"

"You could."

There's a moment of hesitation before Cas handed the book back and shook his head. "I'm not a hunter."

"But you're smart." John is insistent; he thought the kid could be an asset. At the very least, it could guarantee another set of eyes on his own boys. "You'd be a good one."

"John, get out."

Dean stood in the doorway behind Bobby, eyes wide in confusion at the sudden shift in Bobby's mood. Bobby, on the other hand, was a step away from slugging John. Both families were familiar with the old arguments— Sam let school come first, and Cas was off limits for hunts (hell, Bobby would sooner drag Ellen into actively hunting, first).

John set the book down with the school books and crossed his arms. When he really wanted to annoy a Singer, he just needed to be intentionally thick. "There a problem, Bobby?"

Unfortunately, Bobby was not the sort to jump at whatever bait was dangled for him to take. "Get out."

Both men were stubborn, but the staring (glaring) contest and the posturing were cut short by the sound of a rattling engine and a door closing. Sam's boots and Dean's shuffling around Bobby seemed to be the only noise in the house for a moment until Sam got to the doorway and stopped. Rather than answer Bobby, John grabbed the duffle containing supplies amassed for this particular hunt and brushed past Sam on his way out. The man muttered something to his son, but didn't stick around to explain things.

Sam's mouth was a thin line as he processed the shift— Bobby's anger, Cas' slumped shoulders, Dean's look of helplessness to stop anything— and he set the groceries down while trying to ignore the familiar sounds of the impala tearing a groove in Bobby's driveway. "Are we leaving?"

"No." Bobby, spurring Cas into movement away from the table and book on the fey, was quick to reassure the Winchester boys. "Not yet. Not until that test is done and over with."

They knew that John would be back, and they knew that the visit would be cut short because of the flared tempers, but none of that worried Dean. He was too concerned that this was going to be another argument between his little brother and his dad— like Sam needed another excuse to butt heads with John.

"Yeah." Dean plastered on a grin and dug through the groceries Sam had just put down. He knew there was something good in there somewhere. A distraction, or a means of just distancing himself now. There's a muttered "yahtzee" when his hand closes around a slightly haggard Mars bar that had been partially crushed between cereal and eggs. "You two geeks have to do your thing first. Then we'll get back to routine."

"Leave, you mean." Cas stole the candy from Dean's hand, and tried not to think about the fact that his little mistake of offering help might have cost him time with his friends.

—

Gabriel tried Kentucky again. He knew that he hadn't just overlooked the Grace, but he brought an extra Pez dispenser, just in case.

He liked the tree, really. It was strong and deep-rooted. It was sturdy and, like the pond in Minnesota, apparently ancient despite the miracle of it appearing overnight. It was comfort and familiar and everything that one sacred tree in a small town should be (again— Gabriel thought that some small town Americans were just a different brand of pagans). He sort of wished he could meet the Grace that caused that thing to sprout. Instead, he stood beneath the leaves and felt the emptiness of just another tree. A small snack, speckled in the sunlight, slipped past his legs and up to the nearest branch to get a better look at the archangel.

"Not that I don't appreciate the symbolism, buddy," An outstretched hand, and the snake found a new grip on Gabriel's arm. "But that's really cliché. Go eat a chicken or something if you want attention."

He set the snake down again and took a last look at the tree. Other angels had been here— he could still sense their ire at being on earth— and were apparently looking for the rebels. He knew the storm of the whole thing wouldn't break for a few years, yet, but Gabriel decided now that he didn't want to be in the middle of it when Heaven starts the real hunt for the fallen angels living new lives here.

Pulling a Mars bar from a pocket, he started to unwrap it as he wandered away, still thinking of a solution to not getting involved any more than he already was. Maybe he could just grab the kids and hide them.


	6. Growing Up

It had been months since Dean saw the salvage yard. Sam had taken the first free ride he could get, and John had jumped ship. It left him floundering in reality as he tried to use hunting as a means of normalizing things. He hadn't wanted to ask for help, but the case was too big for him, right now and he needed advice, if not a second set of hands.

"So what is it, boy?" There was a dull thud as Bobby set the bottles down, necks clinking together before he separated them to offer Dean a beer. "We talking ghost?"

"I don't know, Bobby. It sounded like a whole mess of them." The case file lay between them on the table, dishes from lunch pushed aside to let them spread the interviews and papers out. "At first they were just death echoes. But then… Well, some ghost died hanging and some poor sap gets phantom rope at the same tree. A guy was crushed when a barn collapsed, and some dude ends up crushed in the first floor of his office building."

"So you're saying that these victims are dying the same way the echoes did."

"Yeah. 'Cept, the whole town changed in a hundred years. The hanging tree was chopped up for lumber, but some guy is found in the field with a hundred-year-old rope around his neck where the stump is. There's an office where the old farms used to be. Whole downtown is a mess of history and today, and there's no telling where these things are popping up next."

Bobby had heard about the strange deaths, but hadn't looked into it. He had a business to run alongside the hunting, and there were letters starting to pour in from schools for his boy. It was easy to just sit back, sometimes, and just let another hunter handle the case. "And it's just echoes?"

"Man, I thought so, Bobby. I really did." Dean glared at his beer, frustrated that he didn't have an answer to this yet. Hell, the only reason he had let himself leave the case was because everything seemed situational— someone saw an echo, someone died the same way— and that meant that he might have some time before the next victim. Enough time to get help. "But echoes don't kill like this. Or at all. Like, ever."

"Do the victims see the echoes?"

The voice was rougher than Dean remembered, and he had to turn to make sure that it was Cas coming in, dressed down and carrying a near-empty messenger bag. There was a brief moment where Dean couldn't reconcile the young man in the doorway, looking curious, and his memories of the scrawny, quiet kid Sam was friends with.

"Yeah. So far, that's the only connection." It had been hell trying to track down the last sights of a dead man, but Dean was persistent when he wanted to be. "Hey, Cas."

"Hello, Dean." A couple of envelopes joined the case file on the table and Cas pulled out the extra chair. "Maybe they're death omens? What other connections are there?"

"You're not involved, boy." Bobby frowned, but it was a half-hearted reminder now— he trusted Dean not to drag Cas into a hunt. "These acceptance letters?"

A nod and Cas pulled the file towards him. "I have an invitation to visit Stanford, Boston, and Cornell. There's scholarship information with them." He ran a finger over two of the police reports about the victims, cross-referencing some of the information. "They went to the same church."

Dean nodded, "So? They were in the same neighbourhood."

"A church that received lumber for repairs from the historical society."

"What? Dude, how could you possibly know that?"

"I had an essay on American folklore and chose haunted buildings. Our Lady of Fatima came up in my reading."

"And you _remember_ where they got building materials?"

For a moment, Cas looked confused. "It was part of the hauntings, Dean. The stories were very specific about the lumber from the tree being the source of apparitions in the church."

"So… you did my case for a homework assignment?"

"In essence, I suppose so."

"Dude, you're a freak."

"I'm aware of that, yes." He pushed the file away and retrieved the envelope stamped with Stanford's seal. "I think this may be the best choice."

Dean grabbed the envelope before Bobby could comment, taking a look over the invitation to visit the Palo Alto campus. "Sam's heading there. Got a free ride and everything."

Bobby harrumphed, letting the boys read over the correspondence and invitations as he cleared the case file off the table. "Don't go giving Cas ideas, Dean. It's a matter of money, right now."

"I could at least see the campus and talk to admissions."

From the tone, Dean could tell that this was a topic that they must have been a common one recently. It's not the sort of conversation he had ever expected to be present for, even if Sam and John had a variation of it once a week before everything had fallen apart. It was the sort of tone that was tired and hesitant, acknowledging that there was a very slim chance that anything other than "no" would be the answer. Dean didn't know what it was, but the downcast defeat on Cas' face spurred him into action.

"Hey, I'm heading that way after this hunt; I don't mind the drive." Dean grinned, checking out the second letter that came with the one from Stanford. "Hell, if you've got other schools on the list, I can take you. The company would be nice."

Bobby glared at Dean as he started the table clean-up. "We'll see."

Dean offered a shrug, fully aware that he could wheedle and promise and cajole Bobby into letting him drive Cas around. He was the one with loads of free time and an open road, after all. And, he was never, ever going to admit that he missed having a kid— Sam's age and a geek— in the car. It'd be good company for a while. Instead of acknowledging any of that, he leaned over the table and pushed the case file towards Cas again.

"So how do I gank a death omen?"

—

"You and Sammy still talk?"

"Sometimes. We trade emails."

"Good." Dean paused, a bottle of water almost to his lips. The porch caught all the warmth during sunset, so he had dragged Cas out there to catch up. "You should go to Stanford, too."

"It's a good school."

"Sam just hopped on the first ride out. Dad signed all the papers though. He probably will next year, too."

"He won't need to. Sam's eighteen."

"Didn't think of that."

Dean liked the salvage yard. Bobby had offered him a legitimate job there more times that he could remember, but the open road was just too much of a temptation. And hunting. There were a lot of things that Dean Winchester would never admit aloud, and the fact that he actually _liked_ hunting and killing things— being a hero to someone— was a piece of honesty he could never let slip. To everyone else, he was content to just be a rough-and-tumble guy who drank too much, fought too much, and hung out with the wrong people.

He never actually understood why Cas was so quick to give him the benefit of the doubt and trust that he was going to pop back to the Singer household sooner or later for a break.

"You're going to be eighteen soon, right? You can pick whatever school you want."

"I respect my dad's judgement on the matter." The wood of the porch creaked as Cas shifted, stretching out his legs and resting his feet on the steps. "But I'll see how the campus tours go."

"He's letting you go?"

"I persuaded him to see logic."

"So you were a sneaky bastard."

The smirk was all Dean needed as confirmation and the next few moments passed in a comfortable silence. There was a scrape of metal on metal from somewhere in the yard, which alerted the dog, but it was a peaceful evening. Dean had missed times like this, even though he'd never trade in a star-filled sky out in the middle of nowhere for the lights and noise of Singer Salvage.

"So when do I get to drag you around the country?"

"After your hunt."

"Sure you don't want to come on that?"

"Do you want dad to kill you?"

The noise of disapproval was low in his throat, caught somewhere between a scoff and a _tsk_. "Bobby is such a freakin' mother hen. So I'll pick you up on my way through. We run off and say hi to Sammy, then where?"

"Cornell. Maybe Florida."

"Dude, not Florida. There are some fucked up people there. I had a banshee case there, and the bitch would just not shut up. I'll take you somewhere more fun than Florida."

"We're going to Cornell."

"Fine." Dean tried to think of what fun things he could drag Cas to between Palo Alto and wherever it was Cornell was supposed to be. A handful of roadside attractions and amusement parks came to mind, but he figured that Cas was more the museum sort. "Ever been to New Orleans?"

"I hear it's very historic, and has a great mix of cultures."

Dean grinned and offered the water bottle to Cas. "It's a fun place. We're going."


	7. Road Trip: Stanford

Author's Note: It's been a while. Thanks for those sticking by and emailing/reviewing/responding/prodding me for updates. I do appreciate the encouragement and knowing that you're interested.

—

The last road trip he had been on was a hunt. It had been the first hunt he had really been allowed to help with, and only because he was too young to stay home on his own while no one was available to babysit. So, at the age of eleven, Cas had been shuffled into a car loaded with weapons, given an armful of books to practice his budding translation skills on, and settled into questionable motels.

It wasn't the best set of childhood memories; yet they all came rushing back to him as he watched the landscape change around him.

"You're a quiet guy." It was the third time in twelve hours that Dean had made that observation. "You okay in there?"

"I had forgotten what travelling like this was like."

"What?" Dean seemed intent on prompting a conversation along now. He even turned down the music in encouragement. "Exciting? A good pace? Relaxing?"

"Mind-numbingly boring."

"Boring? How is this boring? Open road, good music…"

"Cows."

"Cows are awesome, Cas." Dean grinned, taking his eyes off the road long enough to catch the wry look from the younger man. "C'mon, would you rather be flying all over the place?"

"It would be more convenient."

"Dude, planes are dangerous."

"And you going twenty over the speed limit isn't?"

"Yeah, I'm in control here; I know what I'm doing."

The pause as Cas mulled over the comment was filled by Freddy Mercury still blasting out of the speakers around them. It was not the sort of noise that Cas was really used to, but he couldn't quite bring himself to complain about it. Everything jerked a moment as the breaks protested a forced stop at a single line of rail cutting through two fields and fencing off a pasture of very nervous cattle. Given the noise the sudden stop had caused, Cas knew that Dean would be under the hood or beneath the car— crooning apologies and oiling a complaining joint— when they stopped for the night.

The first of a long line of train cars rattled past and drowned out Queen. "You like to be in control."

"I like my feet on the ground."

"I meant in general."

"Kid, I'm more laid back than that mutt your dad keeps around."

"You're a nervous wreck."

"Bullshit." Dean glared at the train until the last car passed and the barriers rose again. "Besides, I can't be a wreck if Bobby trusts me with looking out for you."

"Because you keep a loaded arsenal in the trunk."

A twist of a nob and 'Killer Queen' got a lot louder than Cas liked. He was about to protest the assault on his ears, but he caught the set of Dean's jaw and the way the hunter glared at the road ahead of them.

"Just watch the cows, smartass."

—

The campus was not what he had expected. It was still sprawling, and still had the sense of a "city within a city," but Cas found that it wasn't as overwhelming as he had thought. Of course, he had only seen a handful of buildings up close so far. And, the buildings sprawling out over the main campus did seem a little excessive. But it was quiet (for a huge university campus in the middle of summer), and the bright colours and open areas that peppered the area offered a good sense of welcome.

He could see why Sam liked the place already, but finding that coffee shop they were going to meet in was going to be hell. Cas knew that his friend had found a place to stay in the dorms, already, but he wasn't sure how.

"Do you have any idea where we're going?"

Dean was studying the printout map they had grabbed from the visitors' centre. It was a simple greyscale thing with a handful of the biggest buildings and attractions of the campus labelled as clearly as can be on the scale used to outline the entirety of the campus. But it was also the sort of map that you already had to be familiar with— or have a tour guide walking you through it— to make any sense of.

"I have a rough idea." Cas hadn't expected Dean to come with him onto the campus. Not after the way the hunter seemed to have settled into their hotel the night before and responded to Cas' decline of a night out with a muttered "geek kids wouldn't know fun if it bit their ass" before he disappeared out the door. It was painfully obvious that the town centred on the school and students for its economy, so Cas hadn't asked where the hunter had gone off to or what he had done. "Are you sure you want to come with me?"

"Course I am." The printout map was crumpled and tossed to the nearest bin before Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and glared at the unoffending buildings. "What else would I do all day?"

"I have time before my appointment; we can find the coffee shop Sam was talking about and you can wait there. I shouldn't be too long."

"Dude, that is definitely not my scene."

"And a waiting room is?"

"Scared I'm going to scare a receptionist and ruin your chances at a scholarship?"

"They let Sam in."

"Yeah, well, kid's freaky smart." Dean watches a family head into the visitor's centre, no doubt to schedule a private tour for their own little brat. For God's sake, the guy Dean had to assume was the father was wearing a sweater-vest. This place may as well be a whole planet removed from anything he knew.

"We doing this, or not? Because I'm fine with skipping academia with you, seeing Sammy, and then taking off to New Orleans for the rest of those three weeks we're supposed to have."

"I can't just blow off _Stanford_."

"But you want to." Dean sidestepped around a garden, eyeing the masonry containing the plants with obvious distaste. Things were too clean, and organized, and freaking bright. It looked like the brochure, and that was always just asking for trouble— in his hunter's opinion. The brochure never mentioned the darkside of the pretty pictures— the suicides and date rapes (Dean did do his own research, after all. His baby brother was going to this school). Never mind the stuff that went on beneath all that, the stuff that dragged a hunter to the city once in a while. He had caught wind of a potential haunting he wanted to check out later. "Hell, I would to."

"I never said that I didn't want to study here."

"But you never outright said that you wanted to." Kicking the crumpled corpse of a soda can down the walkway as they moved, Dean glanced at the names of the buildings they passed. Bright stucco and open air made this whole place look like an extension of some very expensive Californian suburbs. He wondered if Sam would pick up any Spanish while he was here. "And you suck at lying, kid."

"Look," Cas glared at the brochure in his hands, seemingly processing what Dean was suggesting; "after this, we'll go on a hunt. You can blow off some steam."

"Yeah? And get Bobby pissed at me? No thanks."

"It'd be an educational experience."

"You just called it a hunt."

"Research."

"Research? For what?"

"Just some wholesome American folklore."

Dean stopped, a hand on the door of one bright building that had "Admissions" scrawled in neat typeface across a sign. "No such thing. What is it you want to hunt?"

"It really is just research."

"You want me to call Bobby? He'll yell some sense into you." Even inside, the building caught the sun, and the open feeling of the campus remained— at least until they got to a lobby, where the sunlight was safely muted. "'Sides, I'm not going into something I don't know. If it's a hunt, you say it. If it's some geek thing you want to check out, say that. Big difference between the two."

Cas dug out his I.D. and neatly folded invitation to the campus. "I want to check out Mintern, while we're in California."

The name sounded familiar, but Dean couldn't place it. He waited until the kid had signed in for his appointment and they were ushered by a _perky_ receptionist through the door. The woman looked like she could have been a student, and Dean wondered again just what Sammy was going to do about food and money, and if he was going to make any sort of honest go at normal life here. Or just fall back into grifting habits. Something seemed to click with the name and the overall wholesome appearance of the waiting room they had been stuck into.

"No, we're not going there."

"It's not dangerous."

"This is the place that has its own demon story, right? Demon took over in the 30s?" The desk across the room was empty— Dean assumed that the need for two receptionists during the quiet summer was redundant. He took it to mean that he could safely fall into one of the chairs and let his feet up on the too-small coffee table.

"Fought an angel."

"No. We're not going." The only reading material in the place was a campus newspaper and some little magazine set up to reassure parents and family that their little geniuses would have the very best education out there. He thought the course calendar was presumptuous, but it saved him from looking into stubborn blue eyes and caving then and there about the whole 'let's research a demon' thing.

"I just want to check it out."

"Demon, Cas. Bad mofo. No."

"Years ago." Cas finally took a seat to wait, and Dean thought that the idea of his friend pouting over this was adorable. "It's gone."

"Those things never leave."

"It could have proof that an angel was there."

"Angels don't exist, kid." It seemed absurd to even have this conversation in a fucking waiting room, where any kid and rich parents could waltz in. "And shut up. We'll talk about it later."

If a reply was coming, Dean didn't get to hear it. The door near the empty desk opened and a woman in a skirt-suit approached Cas to greet him. Dean refused to move, or get up, just on principle. He already didn't like the campus, and he couldn't imagine how far backwards Sam must have bent to get into the damn place.

Even if it was amusing to hear Cas get called "James" and "Mr. Singer".

—

"So what are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

Dean's hands were shoved deep into his pockets. "Your dad will probably be happy, though. Not having to pay for Stanford." Fingers brushed over some coin change and he headed to the nearest vending machine. At least he liked that about the campus— snacks were readily available.

"I got a scholarship." Cas paused, and watched as Dean fed coins into the machine. "I just don't think I'd be comfortable here."

"That admissions lady creep you out too?"

"It's not that. I just don't think this is the best environment for me."

"Sam would be here with you."

"I thought you didn't want me to come here, anyway."

Selection made, Dean shrugged before he stooped to collect the candy bar that had tumbled through the machine. "I don't really care, either way. It'd be convenient to check up on you and Sam at the same time."

"I don't need to be looked after."

"Sure." A pause as Dean watched the steady flow of walking tours cross and visitors make their way to their own admissions appointments. If the crowd was anything to go by, he could see a handful of benefits to hanging around the place if needed. "Think any of the sorority places are haunted?"

"Let's just find the coffee place."

—

Dean's hands were shoved so far into his pockets, he could feel the prick of the lining's seams digging into his knuckles. Everything, every piece of architecture closest to the campus— like any college town intent on cashing in on the familiarity of blending in to the students' surroundings— was the same stucco and stone mix with brightly tiled roofs. It threw Dean off, and his internal bearings seemed completely off when he was sure they left campus, but found another sign naming some tiny lab or study building.

So he just fell into step behind Cas and tried to get an internal map of the area. It wasn't until he saw what was obviously a café not associated directly with the campus that he relaxed. Still built up in the same open style, there was at least a wrought iron fence to separate the patio from the streets.

"So what do you think, Cas?"

No pleasantries and Dean bristled. It may have been the late-summer weather, or the location change, or the fact that their father's shadow wasn't looming on the horizon to drag them off anywhere; but Sam looked like Dean remembered him when they were younger. His little brother, sitting with some sweet-smelling, vanilla-laden drink between his hands, looked like a normal kid— right down to the oversized hoodie with 'Stanford' emblazoned across the chest. "No hello for your big brother, bitch?"

"Yeah, hi, Dean." A pause as Sam seemed to catch on that it wasn't exactly nice to keep that much of a distance between them. "It's, uh, good to see you again. Find everything okay?"

"Yeah. Got a cozy little motel and everything." Dean fell into the standard-issue patio chair across from his brother. His weight shifted it enough to scrape it back across the concrete. "You been good?"

"I'm fine." Sam closed his hands around the paper cup he was drinking from and turned a hopeful gaze to Cas again. He was more than ready to shut out Dean if his brother started in on asking about salt lines and talismans. "How did the meeting go, Cas?"

"It went well. I was offered the scholarship that was expected."

"But Cas wasn't going to take it."

Sam had taken the considerate pause as a good sign, about to add his own opinion and congratulations when Dean jumped in. Now, his face fell and he seemed to flounder between the option of turning a shocked look at his friend and levelling a glare at his brother. Dean thought that the accusation of 'liar' was going to be tossed in somewhere. Instead, Sam decided on confusion and turned the full force of his hurt to Cas.

"Cas?"

A sigh and glare aimed at Dean before Cas nodded. "It's still an option, Sam. But I don't think Stanford is the best school for me."

"Best school? Cas, c'mon. It's one of the best anywhere. And you could get a scholarship too." Dean recognized that wheedling tone all too well. Sam wanted this far more than Cas did. "We said we were going to go to school together."

"Afraid you can't make new friends, Sammy?"

Dean started in surprise when Cas punched his shoulder. The kid could put some force behind that short distance between them.

"Dean, I advise you to keep your mouth shut."

"Love it when you get all bossy, Cas." Dean rubbed his shoulder, not bothered by the ache, but surprised that _Cas_ had hit him at all. "Shit. Where did you learn to hit?"

The conversation continued without him, and Dean refused to consider the fact that he might have been sulking over being excluded completely.

"Sam," Cas started— he wanted to be calm, rational, before his friend could jump to any conclusions; "I said that it may not be the best for _me_. I was also offered a scholarship for Cornell, and I intend to give their program a fair examination."

"Cornell?" There had been hunts there, when they were younger, and Sam remembered the classic look of the campus from a distance. He preferred the clean, modern look of Stanford— the influence of the local culture and diversity. The hunts had jaded Ithaca for him as a WASP sort of college town. "Cas, that's across the country."

"And we will both have easy access to phone lines and campus internet connections. I'm not even sure if I will accept the offer there."

Sam had deflated, mulling over the information over his drink. "I guess."

The chair scraped across the concrete patio again as Dean pushed himself up and patted Cas on the shoulder. "I'm grabbing a drink and a walk while you two finish your little break up. You know where the motel is, Cas."

That slow burn of Sam's anger had started up again, and he leaned forward in the chair to glare at his brother before Dean could swagger off. "Jerk."

"Bitch."

—

The Impala wasn't in the parking lot when Cas got back to the motel. It was a noticeable absence as he paid the cab fare and headed to the colourful door of the room. There were three spaces nearby that could have fit the bulk of the car (Dean having insisted on the cheap, old motel with a justification that the Impala could actually be parked in the lot), and Cas didn't think that Dean would have risked his car by parking anywhere other than plain view of the room. Without the car, and with no indication of light in the window, Cas surmised that Dean was not in.

Cas had declined spending the night in the dorms with Sam, fairly certain that it would result in the sort of conversation that consisted entirely of one person attempting to convince another that a choice was made poorly and then lead to awkward silences. He was not a fan of those conversations, and opted instead to scribble down Sam's newest contact information on a napkin. Now, ignoring the slight disappointment of having found Dean out for the night, he focused on transcribing the new information next to the old.

It was another few hours before Dean came back— Cas takes a quick stock of fresh cuts on his knuckles and a cut on his cheek— just as some new slew of infomercials was starting up. There was a stain on Dean's shirt that could have been a drink, but was dark enough to be a spattering of blood.

"Hunt?" There was no smell of burning, no singed marks in the leather jacket, no mud on Dean's boots, and Cas couldn't recall reading of anything more sinister than a possible ghost here.

"Sort of."

Cas could smell the alcohol, now. "Bar fight?"

"Smart kid."

"Why?"

"How'd your date with Sammy go? Do anything fun?" Dean wasn't expecting an answer, not as he headed to the tiny bathroom to wash up.

Cas let it slide and turned off the ancient television in favour of pulling out the information on Cornell. Dean tossed his shirt onto his bed and kicked off his boots before he fetched items from his duffle— another shirt, a small pouch where Cas knew he kept soap, a shaving kit, and toothbrush.

There was an audible click as Dean released the clip in his favoured pistol and Cas looked up. Satisfied with whatever he found, the hunter tucked the gun under his pillow and grabbed a Bowie knife for the nightstand. "We good to leave in the morning? You didn't make any more play-dates?"

"You don't want to see your brother." It wasn't a question.

"Are we good to go?"

"I'm ready to go in the morning."

"Good. Damn college town gives me the creeps."


	8. Road Trip: Cornell

Author's Note: Shorter than anticipated. More soon-ish. Full-time jobs with an hour-and-a-half commute tend to leave very little free time dedicated to "not sleeping."

Just want to thank reviewers who've been poking and prodding for more of this little universe. The encouragement is much appreciated.

* * *

"Finally."

It's muttered around the intrusion of a plastic straw and followed by a telltale 'empty can' slurp. Dean pulled himself away from the hallway wall and tossed the soda can into the nearest bin as Cas approached. "What the hell took you so long?"

"There are a lot of papers to fill out, Dean." As if to illustrate the point, Cas held up the thick folder he definitely hadn't walked in with. There was a paperclip holding it together and a label scribbled out and rewritten as 'Singer Copies'. With a little awkward shoving, it fit into the messenger bag Cas had taken with him. "And a portion of the meeting was my father drilling the registrar over the speaker."

"Right. Paperwork. Forgot how much of that shit Sammy had to do." Dean liked this campus less than Stanford, if only because he just knew he was going to end up travelling across the damn country to check up on both Cas and Sam in between hunts. If pressed, he could claim that the ivy and old mortar had a bad vibe. "We should celebrate."

"Celebrate?"

"Yeah. You're a normal kid, now, right? School, family, miles away from anything remotely interesting. Hell, there's even real ivy all over this ivy league you picked out." The Impala was far from being the only car in the lot, but it did stand out the most against the little things that had all the useless gadgets. Granted, not having to manually roll down the window would be nice. "I'll buy you a beer."

"I'm underage."

"Yeah, and that's why I'm buying it."

"I don't think getting into a prestigious school warrants a drink."

"Cas, kiddo, buddy, do you _watch_ tv anymore?" It came out with the sort of mock-horror tone that Dean reserved for situations that he really had no other expectations for. Though the school gave him the creeps, and even if Cas was going to be a stick about the partying idea, he was glad to be away from the old buildings that promised brighter futures to smart little cookies. Dean didn't like where he stood in these sorts of places. "How about a hunt?"

"Dad would kill you." Though, as he spoke, Cas had already picked up the morning paper that they had left in car. Out of habit, Dean had scribbled through most of the obituaries, circling one or two small stories that seemed like his sort of 'local interest'. So far, there was a suicide that fit an urban legend, a handful of local gossip that resembled old wives' tales, and a preteen suffering from a heart attack. There was nothing as grisly as an out-and-out murder, but Dean had figured that he wasn't really on the hunt anyway.

A shrug, and Dean reach across the seat and to the floor by Cas' feet for a map picked up on the way into town. Trying to keep his eyes on the road and the traffic, he tossed the map into Cas' lap. "That's why we don't tell him. At least if one of those 'girl weeping in the park at midnight' stories turns out to be true, it's just a salt-and-burn. It's educational."

"Just a salt-and-burn?"

"Nice and easy. Baby steps." Dean grinned, deciding that they needed some Styx to help set the right mood. "Now find the nearest library so you can start reading old newspapers."

Cas was sure that his dry tone could barely be heard over the music when it gets into full swing. "Just how bored were you in there?"

"You have no freaking clue."

—

The public library was not a bustling place of social activity. Given that it was noon on a weekday, Dean was certain that only he, Cas, the librarian, and an old guy who smelled like peanut butter. It was quiet, and boring, and the hunter wasn't certain if the carpet was meant to be that sort of off-cream shade, or if it came from years of use and abuse. Between research and musing on the state of the library, and watching the occasional patron wander in for a book, Dean had managed to connect three sightings of the spirit in the park over the last fifteen years. Now he had a nice little list of sightings, 'victims,' and Cas had just finished up his short list of potential gravesites.

"Dude, you're going to have to narrow this down." Anything more than ten options and Dean stopped considering it as a lead. But he definitely had to admit that Cas was thorough with his research. "This would be like making a blind jump into hyperspace. I need the coordinates before I end up running through an asteroid field."

Dean's mind caught up with his mouth during the awkward few seconds of silence following that analogy. He thanked whatever god was kicking around the clouds that Cas just pressed on after he shook off that look of confusion. "But these are the most likely origins of the spirit."

"There's twenty—"

"Thirteen."

"Thirteen, names here. I'm not digging up thirteen graves in one night unless you have the cash to pay my bail."

"I am receiving a scholarship." It's muttered as Cas takes the list back, immediately scribbling out half of it and leaving the top few names. "Unless I see the spirit to confirm an identity, I will assume that it's one of these five."

"Still too many, Cas."

"Then it looks like we're in the park tonight to try to see her."

Dean frowns at the thought. This was supposed to be a quick salt-and-burn, with no hardships. Just how many freaking people jumped in the river in this town? "You can identify it on sight?"

"Most of the articles and obituaries had pictures."

"Right. Print them. You're staying in the motel with a six pack and a free pass with the porn."

"I'm on this hunt. I'm helping you identify this ghost."

"And you gave me a list of suspects. Just print the pictures and I'm golden."

"You likened the list to making a blind jump into hyperspace."

"And now you're going to give me coordinates."

"No, now I'm required to go on this hunt with you properly to ensure that you don't get lost."

With a roll of his eyes, Dean muscled Cas away from the computer long enough to open the history and print the papers. There would be a stack to go through later, but all he really needed were pictures clear enough to make a positive I.D. on the restless spirit. "You can call Bobby if you want to whine, but he's going to agree that you stay in the room."

"Then when I'm in the motel alone, I'll be sure to let Sam know that you're referencing _Star Wars_ in regular conversation now. Or just mention it the next time a hunter stops by at the house."

"Dude, are you threatening to blackmail me? With my reputation?"

"Don't you usually make Obi-Wan or Yoda jokes?"

"There's more to _Star Wars_ than Jedi…" Pictures printed and in hand, Dean pulled the unnecessary sheets of pure text and references. A few he kept to scribble notes on later, but the bulk went into the nearest bin. He spared a passing thought to the poor soul who happened to glance in at the recycling later. "Fine. But you make one noise that gets me killed, and I'll haunt your ass."

He didn't trust the small smirk that played about the kid's lips, and he definitely didn't trust Cas not to confess everything to Bobby anyway. Dean may have liked the way the kid researched and didn't take shit, but Cas was a sneaky little bastard when he insisted on helping. Dean had shoved the papers into Cas' bag and paused at the nearest vending machine when they hit the lobby. He was going to have to make a commitment to getting Cas drunk before dropping him off at home. The little freak deserved it. Though it wasn't for the first time on this trip that Dean wondered if this was what hunting with Sam would have been like, too. Or maybe Sam was too much of a geek.

Getting into the Impala, Cas tossed his bag over the bench seat and into the back before he spoke again. "Just think of me as your Wedge Antilles."

"I hate you."

—

"Do you really think this is right?"

The warmth of the fire had burned off the chill of night air, and dried dew-damp clothes. Lighter fluid tended to make the flames bigger than they needed to be, but Dean wasn't about to complain now that he had a few moments of warmth. It seemed appropriate to think that somewhere in the bone yard, there was an owl hooting out a warning to some small, skittering prey; or that the restless trees fed by death bent closer in to sap the heat from the fire. But Dean was too busy feeding research material into the blaze and trying to ignore the smell of burning decay.

"What's right?"

"Desecrating a body like this. Digging up holy ground, exhuming the dead, and destroying their bodies."

"It gets the job done."

"Does it?"

He dusted his hands off before he picked up the shovel, turning to face Cas. The kid was clean and tidy by comparison, but it was Dean who had spent the last couple of hours working through the dirt. "Gets rid of the ghost. Stops the killings. A few pissed off priests are fine by me if it means someone gets saved from a bad end."

Cas looked like he was struggling with the concept, trying to force some knowledge he couldn't quite grasp into words. Dean recognized the look: he had seen it on Sam every time he was told to do something that wasn't followed by a reason. Slinging the shovel over one shoulder, Dean grinned and (regrettably) steered Cas away from the burning remains. "It's death for ghosts, Cas. No remains, no way to stay around."

"Unless there was an emotional attachment."

"It'd have to be pretty damn strong, kid."

"There are millions of stories of dead mothers visiting their children. Or protecting them."

"This girl committed suicide."

"I mean in general, Dean. Both of our mothers died by supernatural intervention, and neither have physical remains."

"We're not having this conversation."

"My mother's ashes are scattered somewhere I've never been, but I swear that I've seen her around the house. I barely remember her, but I know exactly what she looks like because I've _seen_ her."

"Dude, stop." Dean knew this line of thought. He had it in the few months after the fire when they tried to stay in the house again. He was a kid, but he swore he could smell his mother's perfume, or see her standing by Sammy. Even now, he knew it was just an imposed memory on a child's mind. He squeezed Cas' shoulder, not sure where the gesture came from, but just trying to derail him. "Hunt's over. Now I get to show you a time-honoured tradition that doesn't include moping around."

"What?"

"I got a fake ID for a 'Wedge Antilles' right here. Let's find a bartender stupid enough to accept it."


	9. Road Trip: Panic

Author's note: As always, thanks for the reviews and encouragement. They are always greatly appreciated and I love reading and responding as much as I can. This one's a little short, but the next chapter should start to delve into Season One's canon a bit.

* * *

He was so dead.

There was no way in hell he could bury this mistake. It was life-ending. Someone was going to kill him for it— probably just on principle. Dean's thoughts whirl around that particular pattern as he drives, fairly certain that, if he wanted, he could just dig his hole deeper and really give Bobby a reason to kill him.

_Oh God_, he hadn't even thought about what kind of lashing Bobby was already going to give him for this mistake. He was going to have to pick out tombstones if he didn't stop soon and turn around. Dean knew that he had to go back to the motel. He couldn't just abandon Cas there. Well, he could, but if he did, then he could never show his face around Singer Salvage or Sioux Falls (hell, most of South Dakota, probably) again.

And then if Bobby found out about this (_and he would_, was the little reminder playing through those thoughts), Dean just knew that his dad would find out. Even if the two hunters weren't talking as much— if at all —anymore, then there was going to be some friend-of-a-friend wandering around to say the wrong thing over a beer. Dean had never known other hunters to gossip— hell, he barely ran into any really, one or two other than Bobby were on the "you know the name" list, and Pastor Jim really didn't count— but there was no way was he lucky enough to have something stupid blow over before John Winchester sniffed out a problem.

And sleeping with Cas was a huge problem.

Plans started to work through his mind. Routes that could keep him away from Bobby, maybe out of John's path (like hell that would ever work) for a few weeks. He could lay low. Stay the fuck away from the west coast.

The west coast, where Sammy was. And that sent a whole new spike of panic through him as he screeched the car across the oncoming lane to pull into the diner that just caught his eye. The lot was almost empty, it was on the edge of town, and he needed to stop driving before he started hyperventilating. He never even thought about Sammy. Sam wasn't going to kill him; Sam was going to _destroy_ him. Just look at him with those freaky-ass big puppy eyes, ask him all the hard questions, and then— and this was the worst— be disappointed in him. Dean couldn't handle that. He may not have liked the yelling and fighting Sammy could do, but it was better than that mournful look of disappointment. Like the damn kid just found out there was no Santa (which, Dean had to remind himself, was probably the first time he fucked up enough to get that look).

He couldn't face Sammy after this. Cas told Sam everything. They were freaking best friends.

Hands shoved deep in his pockets, Dean pushed into the near-empty diner and prayed that he didn't look anywhere near as miserable as he felt. Panic still buzzing through his mind; he quieted enough to work out some sort of plan. He knew what he had to do.

"Two specials to go." The stool at the counter didn't even squeak a protest at the weight settling into it. "And coffee. Black."

"Early birds and tar." The waitress was not the sarcastic, jaded sort of woman Dean usually associated with roadside diners. She was a bottle-blonde, sure, but there was minimal makeup, no air of old cigarettes, and she looked to be in her early twenties. Hell, everything about her seemed almost perky. "Anything else, dear?"

And there was that little Southern twang he liked. Familiar and homey. But this time, the whole of his focus was on the coffee poured out in front of him.

Dean wondered what was wrong with him. "Thanks."

A smile and the woman passed the order through a slot to the chef in the back. "It'll be a minute. New grill and the usual cook called in sick."

Dean nodded his understanding, sipped the black-as-sin coffee, and settled on the stool to wait. Fingers drummed on the counter and looked around. He couldn't panic if there were people around, and the waitress didn't really count. There was hardly a morning rush, but there were enough patrons to make the idea of panicking seem really, really bad now. As the caffeine hit his system, he could start to feel better and rationalize what was going on.

What he could remember of last night that was not horribly blurred by fun and alcohol was taking Cas to a bar and finally finding a bartender who just stopped giving a damn. He remembered buying a few rounds, and finding it hilarious that the kid was a lot more open when sloshed. There were the girls, and Cas' resolute refusal to enjoy himself, and Dean recalled the way he finally let the kid drag him back out of the bar after the fourth woman left in a huff. Even Sammy wasn't that much of a buzzkill most of the time. From there, things got foggy.

He didn't remember the conversation or what led up to it. But he remembered that the kid had the mouth of a freaking angel. And the bed was probably louder than him.

When he registered the guy down the counter watching him, Dean realized that he was grinning into his coffee. Grin wiped clean in a second, and he shot the guy a glare.

"Something the matter, pal?"

"Fun day, kiddo?"

There was something just _off_ about the man. The way the stack of pancakes drowning in syrup hadn't seemed to diminish, the huge chocolate milkshake at six in the morning, and then the way the guy was just bold enough to chat up a guy like Dean. The hunter knew that he put up a front, it was habitual, and it was supposed to keep the chatty folks good and away so they didn't clue in on anything that might identify him, or keep him memorable. At the crack of dawn like this, no one should want to tangle with a tough-looking kid.

But the waitress saved him the trouble of thinking up a response. Nodding a thanks to her for the styrofoam containers and leaving a decent tip with the payment (he could win it back later— pool and darts would be a good way to brush off the really bad day he was about to have), Dean left. The short guy with the pancakes was still smirking at him, and he had to resist the urge to just start something then and there.

He had something of a plan now. He knew what he was going to have to say, and how he was going to say it. It's couldn't be that hard, right?

—

"Last night didn't happen."

That's not what he meant to say, or even how he wanted to say it. But it was too late to chase the words with something more reassuring, so Dean tried to take it in stride. The look of confused hurt passing Cas' features twisted his gut, and he knew that he had already fucked this up.

"I mean, it doesn't count." Not helping. "You were drunk, I was drunk, and it was still awesome, but it doesn't really count. Because of being drunk. So it doesn't count and you don't get it on your record."

There was a twitch to Cas' brow as he sorted out the rambling into something that he could understand. "You didn't enjoy it?"

"What? How the hell did you get that?" Hell, now that they were in the same room again, Dean could imagine just how that maple syrup must taste on Cas' lips. You don't think about going another round if the sex sucked. "It's just… Not going to happen again," Damn; "and not something that should get spread around."

He knew the look Cas got when he was ready to ask a question, or try to work out something he didn't understand, and Dean really didn't want to answer anything along the 'why' part of logic. This wasn't logical. It was sex, and his reputation, and Cas' reputation, and the fact that several hunters might want to kill him if they knew anything. Nothing about this even approached logic to Dean. This was smack dab in the middle of 'do not talk about' territory. So, before Cas could try to apply any form of rational thought to the situation, Dean got up and patted the kid's shoulder.

"I'll get you home." Skip Orleans, then skip town the second the kid was home safe. Dean had that part all worked out, after all. He could do with not pushing his luck for a while.

And if Cas had the slightest look of disappointment to his features as he finished off the breakfast, Dean pretended not to see it. He could do with some time avoiding the Singers and his brother. There was probably a good hunt in New York or Maine. Maybe Vermont. When the school year started, he could take to Florida, or hit Louisiana then. All he'd have to do is clear it with his dad and get on the move.

No problem.

He still wasn't sure why the panic was still setting in.


	10. Visit

A/N: Shit, this was hard to write. Reworked three bloody times and finally just pounded out to the current version to be done with it. I know it's awkward and poorly paced, also leaves gaping holes and questions. The last part is on purpose, the first ones are the product of frustration and several months' worth of writers' block and depression.

Feedback is, of course, greatly appreciated, but I know this chapter is pure transitional shit.

* * *

The monster was a huge, hulking beast— had to miss as it rumbled and growled its way around the college town. It prowled the same areas and kept to the same patterns in the streets, unaffected by daylight, despite the fact that it would have an easier time of hiding in the dead of night. It focused on a single target. A target that had to have noticed its existence by now, if not a few days ago when it first settled into its routines. There was no elegance to it. There was just this giant, black monster idling in plain view down the street.

Sometimes, Dean wondered if his dad wanted to get caught.

He could watch it from the safety of a busy street, blending in with the crowd by virtue of age and location. He could have watched it from the café patio, settled down with a decent coffee and a bit of food while he waited for the first damning move to be made. He could have, but he ended up deciding to take a the safer option of an inconspicuous alley where he could lean against a brick wall and watch the brown doorway with the brass knocker where his target had disappeared to almost thirty minutes ago.

He had found out about the appointment and location through Cas about two weeks ago. Sammy had a job interview. One that had him excited enough to call up Cas— or email the kid, or do whatever it was they did to keep in touch at opposite ends of the country— and, Dean presumed, squeal like an excited little girl. He wasn't sure how their dad found out the same information, but he figured that it didn't really matter. Right, now, all that mattered was the fact that the dull brown door was opening and Sam had stepped out into the light again.

There were exchanged words, which Dean couldn't hear, and a lot of hand shaking and nodding. He supposed that he could have listened in, if he wanted, but he knew how painfully polite Sammy could be, and he had broken out the 'eager puppy' face for this. For a moment, Dean wondered if his dad was going to kick his beast of a truck into gear and follow Sammy the short distance back to the campus, but nothing happened. The truck didn't move as Sammy walked off, already fishing out a phone to no doubt inform his geek friends of his success.

Pocketing the dying walkman he had carried with him, Dean ducked down the alley proper. The Impala was a few blocks away, far enough to be less obvious than his dad's truck; far enough away to run if he saw Sammy heading towards it at any time. Unlike John, Dean didn't want to be noticed. Because if he was noticed, he just knew that he'd have to say something, and that would probably mean having two geek kids pissed off at him when they compared notes. He had already been called a stalker when he called Sammy on his last birthday, and he wasn't in the mood to repeat the experience now that he could be yelled at in person.

Besides, he had things to do. There was a possible hunt about ten miles north, and he had to find rock salt somewhere around here.

—

Dean never stuck around the college towns if he could avoid it. It took about two months, but he had hunted his way across the country until he was sprawled out in a half-empty dorm, tinkering with the toolset Bobby had given Cas before the school year had started. In those two months, his walkman had finally died, and he had an idea to salvage it while Cas packed up all the bits and pieces of his school life. Everything the kid owned could fit into a handful of small boxes and a duffle or two. When he helped the kid move in, Dean had voiced his approval— not much had changed in the course of a couple of semesters.

Now, at the end of the school year, Dean had agreed to get Cas out of the dorms while Bobby was busy at the salvage yard. It wasn't exactly out of his way, and there were a few free meals in the deal he had set up. It worked nicely, really. The Impala had made a handful of appearances over the course of the school year, particularly during the brief breaks in the schedule when he was needed to chauffeur Cas between Ithaca and Sioux Falls. It wasn't too bad; the Singers chipped in for gas, invited him for meals and holidays, and they were a fair hand with the car when she decided to throw a hissy fit at something or other. All in all, Dean had to admit that he liked the set up. He just tried not to think about how he was in close contact with the Singers when he barely spoke to his own family.

Over the course of the last year, Dean had found that he spent far more time kicking around Ithaca than Palo Alto. He chalked it up to Sammy's reactions the few times they'd actually spoken during those visits, and how Cas seemed happy to open up his door without too many complaints.

So sprawled out over the thin carpet, with the tools arced around him and all within easy reach, he concentrated on his new project while he listened to Cas gather things and box them up. They were into the last things now, it seemed.

"Are you going to help?"

"Driving counts as helping."

"I was thinking more about heavy lifting."

"After I get this done." Dean knew that he wasn't going to get away with this much longer. His little project had been finished for about twenty minutes now, and he just had to run it through some tests. "Besides, how much heavy lifting could you have?"

"These boxes contain books, Dean. Textbooks. Ones that are generally in excess of three hundred pages and bound in hard covers."

"Thought the smart kids sold their books after school. Didn't Sammy do that?"

"I'm not one of the smart kids. Just put the tools in one of the bags."

"You need a vacation." Despite being hired to drive the kid around, Dean was well aware that Cas' idea of 'vacation' was not normal. Hell, the plan was to drop his friend off at Pastor Jim's for a couple of weeks and head on to deliver the packed books to Bobby.

"That would be why I'm packing."

"I mean a real vacation, Cas. Sun, surf," a slow grin spread as Dean stretched out on the thin carpet— tools tossed aside as he declared his project completely finished; "half-naked women on a beach."

"Not interested."

"Hell, I'm interested. You can just come along for the ride."

"Dean, how long have you known me?" The harsh ripping of tape over cardboard drowned out the screech of the walkman as the hunter waved it close to an electrical outlet. The screech died quickly, but the pile of junk in Dean's hand buzzed with each new movement around the room. "What the hell did you just make?"

"EMF reader. Awesome, right?"

"Impressive. Going to help now?"

"You suck." Still, Dean was satisfied with the reaction enough to drop the repurposed walkman into his own bag before he shouldered Cas'. "You should spring for an apartment next year. No roommate to complain when I end up crashing at your place."

"Apartments are expensive. And there would be fewer complaints if you didn't smell like you just came from a bonfire."

"Not my fault if hunting involves burning things. You love it when I visit you."

"You eat all my food." Dean knew the smile was edging into Cas' voice, though. There was a definite balance they had reached sometime during the school year when it came to these little visits. Some things weren't talked about, and they kept it easy and friendly— Dean liked to think that it wasn't awkward at all after the first few times he'd spent the night, carefully sober and not touching the kid at all.

He's not sure how it happened, but Cas was a few steps behind when Dean saw the familiar man. At least, he thought the guy was familiar. Dressed in a janitor's uniform, the hunter wasn't sure what about the guy that caught his attention other than the fact that he had grabbed Cas' arm on their way out the door. The man was small— slighter than Cas, which was really saying something— but his sudden grip had stopped Cas in his tracks. Dean was about to say something, old protective instincts flaring up over the idea that someone might be hassling his friend, but the offending hand loosened and dropped, and Dean saw the smile Cas had in greeting.

Still, the guy seemed familiar, and there was something about the slicked back hair and lopsided grin that just rubbed Dean the wrong way. The hunter made a show of adjusting the boxes in his arms. "Hey. These aren't light, you know."

He caught sight of the bit of metal pressed into Cas' free hand, but completely missed whatever was said between them. They weren't more than six feet away, but it just sounded like nonsense syllables— nothing registered between sound and meaning. Dean huffed, frustrated now, and feeling left out of something important for the first time since he started visiting Cas at the campus.

It was over in a second, but Cas was still smiling as he caught up to Dean and the janitor disappeared into the newly vacated dorm room.

"Who was that?"

"Mr. Gabe." Cas had his free hand in his pocket. "Just the head janitor. Nice guy, though."

"Right. Let's just get going."


	11. Ink

He's not quite sure how they got to this point. A pile of boxes and salvaged household appliances not included in the rent had been abandoned by the door, the fridge had barely been stocked, and the makeshift curtains had just been strung up over the windows. Hell, the closest thing to a bed in the one room apartment at the moment was a couple of unrolled, army-issue sleeping bags. And there was a disconnect over what had happened in the last ten minutes in Dean's mind. He had dropped the last of the boxes off, remembered Cas shoving perishables into the fridge in the tiny kitchen, and then… Well, something had to have happened, or been said, because now the hunter reconnected to the situation with a lapful of Cas and lips on his neck.

It wasn't as awkward as he thought it might be. But he really had no idea where this had come from. He wasn't about to complain (though the temptation to joke about Cas' summer spent in a church was harder to quell). One minute he was helping the kid get settled, the next they were on the makeshift bed of uncomfortable material. A comment about a nice ass flooded Dean's mind, and his memory supplied the reminder that he had spent the summer avoiding the kid when he remembered that celebration night a year ago. But this? This was all desperate contact and lust.

"When did you get this?"

A thumb ran over the black mark on a pale hip, traced the strong lines of the design that peeked out just above Cas' denim. Dean knew that it probably wasn't in his best interest at the moment to get distracted— not while he had Cas directly above him, straddling his hips and grinding down in a particular way that was nothing short of a promise— but he had never thought of the kid as a tattoo kind of guy. It was familiar, though, the sort of image he had seen sketched out in hundreds of research-ready books and notes the Singers had put together for him over the last year.

"Summer. Are you going to kiss me again, or not?"

A grin, and Dean obliged. Thoughts of figuring out what the tattoo meant were very quickly replaced with better ideas of making sure that Cas was in a more accommodating position. It was nothing to get the younger man on his back, bunching up the material of the sleeping bags around them. Dean wanted to leave marks, make sure he could look at Cas and think about this for months to come. Just in case he fucked it up again.

He had worked a hand into the younger man's boxers when the drive to put his mark on Cas' neck was interrupted by a reminder of reality.

"There's no lube."

Half a second to pull his mouth away and Dean grinned at the slightly wrecked look he had produced on Cas. That look was definitely going to have to be elaborated on. "There's other things to do, kiddo."

—

"I can't believe Bobby let you even get a tattoo." The apartment needed better ventilation. That had been Dean's first thought when he came back to himself. But then he had caught sight of the black design again and actually voiced the newest thought to come to mind.

"He practically insisted when I told him my idea for it." The hint of a grin crossed Cas' lips— lips that Dean couldn't resist tasting again. "It was Pastor Jim who gave me the book with the design."

"Seriously? What does it mean? Looks familiar." Sweaty, sated, and already thinking about taking over the tiny bathroom, Dean touched a few light, teasing fingers over the tattoo he could see properly now. It was fresh, or at least still dark and bold. To Dean, it looked like a spiked flower covered in marks he really could barely identify. If it was a language, he knew it wasn't English or Latin.

Cas' hand closed over his, pulling the touch away from the marks. His tone was matter-of-fact, if a still a bit breathless. Dean thought that he could get used to the sound. "Hand of God, with Psalm ninety-one, eleven in Hebrew."

"And that is?" A squeeze to the hand before the hunter pulled away and sat up. A shower would definitely be nice.

"Protection. It should ward against possession, too." Cas squirmed away from the too-hot material of the sleeping bags that had bunched around him on the floor and ran a hand over his face. Dean had to look him over; it was practically a necessity now, especially the way Cas stretched before he shoved the offending material away completely. "Shower?"

"I call it first."

"I think, at this point, we can share, Dean."

Dean had to pause at the mental image that suggestion produced. Dean's pause gave Cas enough time to get up and dig out the toiletries from one of the boxes, but the hunter was up and after him in a moment. An arm closed around Cas' waist to pull him close again. Lube was definitely going to be on the shopping list before Dean skipped town. "You're going to ruin me, Cas."

"I think that depends on whether or not this is something we talk about."

"You're a paranoid dick, you know that?"

"Dean, the last time we slept together, you refused to acknowledge it. And this time you can disappear for months at a time."

"Okay, yeah, I'm a jerk. I got it. Shower now?"

"You owe me."

Cocky grin in place— something that Dean wasn't sure he could have maintained under the strain right now— the hunter slipped his hand down to stroke Cas. "I'll make it up to you."

—

It wasn't on the first night that Dean realized that Cas had nightmares. Hell, Cas wasn't even in the apartment when Dean found out just how bad some of Cas' nights were. The kid was out on errands while Dean tried to make sense of what was in half the boxes— journals, textbooks eons behind in the sort of research Cas could do in a weekend for a hunt, books borrowed from Pastor Jim or Bobby, a handful of tattered printout studies… There was really nothing Dean hadn't already expected or hadn't seen before. At least, nothing unexpected was found until he pulled out a book a hell of a lot like his dad's journal.

He knew that Bobby kept a handful of journals around to track research progress, hunts, mistakes, the usual. And it seemed natural that it was a habit passed on to Cas. But Dean couldn't resist flipping through the pages before he had to pretend he never saw it. There were bits and pieces he recognized— his hunts, laid out in notes and jotted ideas before they were filtered down to him in easier terms and concrete results— from the past year, and then…

Pages of Cas' neat, precise writing seemed to fall away to marginalized notes and scribbles he could just picture were written at two in the morning. Half-finished notes on dream analysis, precognition, dreamscape theory… It all littered a handful of pages until it just stopped making sense in Dean's head. It hadn't made much sense to begin with— the notes and scrawling theories had shared the same tone as Cas' far neater analysis of earlier research, complete with the pseudo-psychology and terms Dean had never bothered to learn unless he had to— but it stopped being a flurried mess of research after three pages and started getting personal. Sentences were scratched out, a page obviously torn, a picture of Pastor Jim's church with a date— a future date; April 2006— with a note about a 'woman in a red jacket'.

Now it was starting to look a lot more like John Winchester's journal of patchwork hunting research.

The flurry of information, the mention of a woman in a red jacket, vanished easily in the next couple of pages. The mess of haphazard scrawling analysis of something that had clearly disturbed Cas, was gone. The journal reverted back to the neat research, annotated, dated, accompanied by a list of books and where to find them. Margins were still scratched away with little messages about dreams and, for a while, times when the notes were made. But those soon got lost beneath the more methodical research.

Dean felt ashamed to see it. Like he had pried too deep into something he really should have just ignored. It had felt like he had skimmed the journal for hours, and he snapped it shut to toss aside. He gathered up the books within easy reach and started stacking them on the cheap shelves they had found in a church shop down the street. He owed Cas some measure of privacy, and if the kid didn't want to talk about it, then he didn't have to think about it.

"Are you actually cleaning up?" Shopping was dropped by the door while Cas worked his boots off. "I didn't think it was possible."

"Funny. Where do you want the textbooks?"

"Shelf is fine. I got doughnuts."

Dean didn't grin, not sure if he could while he tried to push the journal from his mind. But he smiled, something fond, looking over Cas. "You're awesome."

"I know."

A glint of silver around Cas' neck caught his eye— near one of the marks that still made the hunter flush with want— and Dean dropped the books on the shelf in no random order. "Since when do you where jewellery?"

"What?" Fingers touched the disk hung from a thin cord, and Cas shrugged. He gathered up the groceries again and padded to the kitchen that was little bigger than a walk-in closet. "Just haven't found a place to put it, yet. Might as well wear it."

"What is it, anyway?" Dean couldn't really harp on anything like a talisman, since the one Sammy gave him years ago never left him.

"Sigil of Gabriel."

Now Dean grinned, having found a familiar ground to tease Cas over. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were getting religious."

There was a clatter as Cas dropped a second set of keys on the kitchen counter. "You'll just have to come by more often to make sure I'm properly corrupted, then."


End file.
